


The Mind Intervention

by LaurenLightning



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:43:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurenLightning/pseuds/LaurenLightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3 years after the death of his best friend, and Sherlock still won't leave John alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

“Tell him you’re alive.”

“It’s not that simple. You know it isn’t.”

“I’ve seen what this is doing to him. To his mind. So have you, but still you think it’s better to keep him in the dark.”

“I’m trying to keep him alive, Mycroft.”

 

...

 

_Don’t be dead. Just for me. Just stop this._

 

My name is John Hamish Watson. I’m a doctor; I’m not stupid. I know Sherlock Holmes is dead. That I’m not actually looking at him, but he’s here.

He doesn’t speak. I thought – I _hoped_ that when I saw him he would have some brilliant explanation for it all, but he was just standing there. At first I wanted to punch him but then I realised something was wrong. Something wrong with me.

So I went back to my shrink. She wanted to talk about Sherlock, naturally. I couldn’t. She kept asking me about our relationship; how would I define it? What did he mean to me?

But how am I supposed to answer that? How could she possibly understand? No. Whatever we had was between us. Mrs Hudson might have been closest to the truth.

So I tried medication, but the side effects just weren’t worth it. I couldn’t work, couldn’t interact. I knew I could cope without them, and so far I have.

So here I am after 3 years, settled into my own practice (courtesy of Mycroft, probably guilt) with my dead best friend sitting in the consulting chair. Fitting, really.

It’s oddly comforting to have him there, even if I’ve learnt to ignore him.

That was, until today.


	2. Sherlock Returns

The slightest doubt about John’s mental fragility had crept into my mind, but I knew he was strong. He was stronger than everyone in the end.

I couldn’t risk seeing anyone in the process of getting to him, so I made an appointment at his medical practice for the following day. His secretary enjoyed working there, I could tell that much over the phone.

An elaborate disguise was going to be necessary, so I made a few calls and had the homeless network deliver the packages at random times so as not to arouse suspicion.

I had some help of course; Molly had been very kind in letting me hide out at her flat. It was surprisingly comfortable, aside from the cats.

Returning to Baker Street was too dangerous at this point; Moran was still on the loose. He had chased me all over the world a few times, and now he had played right into my hands by following me back to London. I assumed he’d go after John first, which is why I was anxious that I should secure him as soon as possible. I left Mycroft instructions that Mrs Hudson was to win a holiday for two, so she and Mrs Turner were safely out of the way. I also told him to be ready to collect Lestrade at a moments notice, and we would reconvene across from 221b, in an empty house where I could stage the finale.

There was some difficulty in disguising myself for John; he wasn’t as easily fooled as so many others. I stuffed my clothes to hide my figure, and spent hours strategically placing artificial facial hair to hide my facial structure.

I left Molly’s flat through the rear window and made sure I caught a cab from a few streets away. When I arrived I couldn’t help but smile a little at the quaintness of John’s practise. Pastel colours and pale wood chairs, little vases of flowers here and there. All so _dull_.

I gave my false name and a few details to the secretary, and then sat in the waiting area. I was joined by a teacher, a mother with a child who was faking a cold, and a hypochondriac elderly male. _Busy day then Dr Watson_.

Snippets of his voice were audible through the door of the consulting room, and I felt safer just knowing I could be at his side in 7 seconds.

Finally my alias flashed up on the LED screen and I made my way into the room, taking care to limp and shuffle when appropriate. I nearly lost control of my physical disguise when I looked up and saw him sat there, smiling at me with no idea who I was. He looked tired.

I had a plan. As far as I could tell from the notes Mycroft acquired for me, the Sherlock that John had been seeing didn’t speak. All I had to do to prove my authenticity was to use my voice. Of course I factored into my plans that he might go into shock, and made all the necessary provisions. He just needed waking up.


	3. I'm alive.

“Good morning Mr…” His head dropped as he checked the note on his desk, but I detected a faint smirk “…Anderson.” All part of the plan. Firstly I’d bring back a memory of the real me- “What seems to be the problem?”

“It’s my head.” I explained, removing my cap. “I had quite a nasty fall a while ago and it’s been bothering me ever since.”

“Right I see…” He made a few notes while nodding, every bit the perfect listener. “And how long ago was that?”

“3 years.” I discarded the rest of my disguise, leaving the facial prosthetics until last. I must admit I was confused when his expression didn’t change at all.

“You should’ve come sooner, this could be a serious problem.” He was looking straight at me, why didn’t he realise?

“John, it’s me. Sherlock.” I feared this would happen. He thought I was just a hallucination. An elaborate one, but just a figment of his imagination none the less.

He laughed. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t dealt with this for the last 3 years? And now I must have _really_ lost it because all of a sudden you’re disguising yourself and talking to me-”

“John! Listen to me, I’m alive,” I grabbed his arm across the desk and immediately felt his muscles tense under my fingers.

“But...…” His eyes locked onto my hand as he lifted his other arm and reached toward me. “I saw you jump.”

“But did you see me _land_?” I released my grip but he’d already grabbed my coat.

“3 years Sherlock.” He pulled me out of the chair until his face was inches from mine. “3 BLOODY YEARS!” As I felt the spit on my face and realised this wasn’t going to go quite as I’d planned.

“John I know this has been difficult-”

“Difficult?! I’ve gone mad, Sherlock. Actually, properly insane. Doesn’t that bother you?” Even I could see the regret in his face before he’d even finished that sentence.

“I thought this might shock you out of it. I’m sorry, for everything. Can you forgive me?”

I watched him processing the information; it was interesting enough for me to see how someone else’s mind worked, even more so when it was John. His eyes flickered around the room, searching for signs that he was hallucinating. He reached out and grabbed my scarf, his fingers revelling in the fabric. Anger faded from his face; everything was going to be fine. I was back, the danger was back. He sighed before he looked into my eyes and released his grip.

“Of course I can you idiot.”

We both smiled.

“Good, because unless we get out of this room in the next thirty seconds we’re going to be the latest victims of Sebastian Moran.” I expected John’s face to drop, but instead it lit up with the thrill of adrenaline. “On my count, make straight for the door, get everyone out, and stay away from the windows. If you can manage it, stay in front of them. You’ll be fine once you get outside, he’s on this side of the building, but do not wait for me, do you understand? Get straight in a cab and head for the flat. I’ll meet you there. Ready?”

He nodded once and looked to the door. The soldier was back.

“Go.”


	4. Back to Baker Street

It took every ounce of my self restraint not to drag Sherlock with me; what if I lost him again? No, I couldn’t afford to think like that. Moran may be clever, but he was no Moriarty. He was certainly no match for Sherlock. I heard a shot break the window; I must have got out just in time. Diving out of site under the bay window, I realised Moran would be anticipating my moves and turning his attention to this room, despite Sherlock being his main target.  
“EVERYONE GET OUT, NOW!” I bellowed, startling them into action. Even the old man starting running. Nothing wrong with you then, is there? His name was Herbert; a regular of mine. Remembering Sherlock’s instructions, I crouched and ran to the front door, grabbing a reluctant and terrified Violet from the welcome desk in the process. No doubt she’d want a transfer after this. I covered her as much as I could with my own body as I saw another shot bury itself into the wall. That would be his last shot for now; we all made it outside safely.  
I blurted out a half-arsed apology and something about a terrorist attack to everyone who was still outside, then hailed the next cab and headed straight for Baker Street, still buzzing with adrenaline. God I’d missed that feeling.  
The cab ride seemed to take longer than it should, but it must have been through eagerness or paranoia because the fare was the same as always. I wasted no time getting inside; despite knowing there was no way Moran could be here already. I ran upstairs, and there was Sherlock, sitting quite calmly in his chair, as if the past 3 years had never happened. It was when he didn’t move that I started to panic. Was he just another hallucination?  
Then there was the hand on my shoulder. Fearing the worst, I span around and punched them in the gut before I even knew what was happening, and seeing Sherlock crumpled on the floor in front of me only confused matters more.  
“Sherlock what the-”  
“It’s a corpse, John. You’re not hallucinating.” He gasped, winded from the blow.  
“A corpse? In our living room…” I examined it further. Yeah, the guy was definitely dead, whoever he was. “This is bad, even for you.”  
I couldn’t bear to look at its face; surgically modified to look like Sherlock, but with that unavoidable deathly pallor that brought back so many bad memories.  
“Don’t worry, you’ve got one too.” Reaching for the door handle, he dragged himself up and straightened out his suit. “He’s in the kitchen.”  
“That’s not what I was- oh never mind. I suppose this is part of a plan?”  
“Excellent deduction John, I see your intellectual prowess hasn’t waned in my absence.”  
“Hilarious.” I followed him to the kitchen where sure enough, my doppelganger was standing at the sink. Whoever did these must have gone through a lot of trouble, posing them even before rigor mortis set in must have been difficult, not to mention dressing them up. Then I realised who the poor bugger must have been. “Please tell me you didn’t talk Molly Hooper into this…”  
“Of course I did, who else could I trust?” He whizzed into his room, shouting from behind the door. “Anyway she didn’t mind, and even Mycroft helped a little.”  
“Really? What do you owe him for that?” Even if it was to catch a highly dangerous criminal, it wasn’t in Mycroft’s nature to do favours.  
“Two cases, without argument. I can’t wait to see what miraculous drivel he brings me.” He emerged in what I presumed was a disguise; he certainly looked strange I’ll give him that.  
“Is that-” I pointed inquisitively at his torso as he grabbed me impatiently and shoved me towards his door.  
“Your jumper, yes. Now hurry up and change, we’ve only got five minutes. I’ve laid out everything you need.”  
“No time for a cuppa then?” I saw the answering look of “Really?” on his face as I closed the door. Then I remembered this was Sherlock, who didn’t know I was joking, and who put the kettle on a few seconds later.


End file.
